Let Them Eat Stake: A Vampire Chef Novel (9 page)

“She tore Oscar’s menu up and tossed it out,” crowed Deanna. “It’s going to be perfect! Actually,” she added, “Chef Caine was my first choice. If I’d had my way, we’d
have talked to her
months
ago.” Deanna beamed. The dining room whispered and smartphones were whipped out by compulsive text messagers. I struggled to keep my mouth shut. Did she not know about Oscar? Or was she trying to milk the situation? And why in the hell was this happening in my dining room where I couldn’t demand to know what the hell was happening?

Think fast,
I told myself.
And diplomatically.

“Thank you so much, and congratulations again to you both. Now, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me.” I beckoned Suchai over. “I hope you’ll enjoy your meal. Suchai will be taking care of you personally tonight.” I met my manager’s eyes. He nodded, and in turn signaled to Frederico, our most experienced table captain.

The Alden-Renault table would get a complimentary course, and some of the house special sangria for the nightbloods. They were VIPs; they’d be treated as such, whether I liked it or not, and I found I did not like it—at all.

Zoe eyed me as I stepped back into my spot at the expediter’s station.

“You okay?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I know.” I slotted a new ticket into place on the dupe slide. “Where are we on fifteen?” I shouted over my shoulder.

“Fifteen, two and three working, Chef!”

I don’t think I looked up for the rest of my shift. I pushed myself into high gear and stayed there. But I couldn’t work fast enough to silence the questions in the back of my brain. I was not the only haute noir chef in this city, or in Felicity’s address book. I’d never had my name on an event this size, and I was in fact a liability when it came to the peaceful completion of this wedding. I had bad blood with the guy who had the job before me, who was now, surely coincidently, dead.

So we were back to the question Brendan asked me on that Brooklyn sidewalk—why me?

I was sorting through time cards and nodding toward Jose the dishwasher as he headed for the back door when my phone started playing “Bela Lugosi’s Dead,” the ring tone I’ve reserved for Chet.

I sighed and told myself I was still mad at him, but after the day I’d had, it seemed like pretty small potatoes.

“Hey, Chet.” I clamped the phone between my shoulder and ear so I could keep sorting cards.

“I heard about Oscar,” answered my brother. “You okay?”

I hate FlashNews.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Even over the phone Chet’s nightblood silences could make my skin crawl. “I’m
fine
,” I repeated.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to bite my head off.” This was a saying you’d think a vampire would avoid, but Chet never was very careful that way. “You want me to come down there or anything? So we can, you know, talk?”

I thought about it; I really did. I was tired, I was sad, and I was disturbed by the resurfacing of my inner Nancy Drew. But at the same time, if I let Chet in now, it would only end with his bringing up the fact that I was in the middle of another Maddox mess, and that he’d offered me
a perfectly adequate loan. This would make me yell at him, which would start the whole argument all over again. On the list of things I Did Not Need Right Now, this was item number one. Okay, maybe number two.

“Thanks, Chet,” I said. “But really, I’m okay. If that changes, I swear I’ll call.”

I’m not sure he totally believed me, but he believed enough to make some small talk and hang up. I tossed my phone back down on the desk with the invoices, schedule sheets, and time cards. I stared at my dark, silent kitchen and reached one solid conclusion.

I needed to get out of there. I needed a full night’s sleep and to remember that whatever had happened to Oscar, it was really none of my business. Nancy Drew could go take a flying leap.

I grabbed my stuff from my locker, tossed my chef’s coat in the hamper, and headed out toward the alley. I locked the door behind me and tugged hard on the handle to make sure it was really closed. It had a bad habit of sticking open.

I was pulling the key out when cold touched the back of my neck—not a cold breeze or a cold drip of water, just…cold. The cold was followed by a soft whisper that crawled right up into the back quarters of my brain.

“You need to stay away from the Alden job.”

I slid the keys into my pocket and wrapped my hand around the miniature spray bottle I keep there.

The nightblood stood about two feet away from me. He had hollow cheeks, dark hair, and a very long, narrow nose that, together with his high cheekbones, gave him a vulturelike appearance.

Suddenly, turning down Chet’s offer of a sympathetic shoulder and brotherly escort didn’t seem like such a great idea, family quarrel or no family quarrel. If I got drained in my own alley because I lacked the cojones to make up properly with my own brother, neither one of us would ever forgive me.

“Sorry—you are?” I kept my thumb on the spray bottle’s trigger. Having been attacked in an alley before, I had developed this nervous habit of going around armed. In this case, the armament was a light but effective mixture of garlic-infused holy water.

“Jacques Renault.” The vampire tilted his chin so he could look yet farther down that long nose at me. Not that he had any right to. It was a seriously high-class expression coming from somebody dressed as an undead slacker. In a departure from the rest of his overdone blood family, Jacques wore loose khakis and a button-down shirt, its tails untucked, over a black T-shirt. He also smelled of fresh onions, which was not your normal nightblood perfume. “And I will say it again, Charlotte Caine—you need to stay away from the Alden job.”

In situations like this, when you’re facing something bigger, stronger, and much, much more dangerous than you, the only immediate answer is attitude. “What’s it to you?”

Jacques opened his mouth to flash fang—in case I hadn’t worked out I was dealing with the lurking undead. This gave me time enough to get my bottle halfway out of my pocket. It turned out I needn’t have bothered. We had company, and he brought a fresh cold front with him.

“Charlotte? How lovely to see you here.”

Anatole Sevarin moved gracefully into the alley, smiling as if I were climbing out of a stretch limo in a designer gown instead of standing in stained work clothes with a strange vampiric companion. Anatole was a tall, lean man, and his pallor only served to emphasize his brilliant green eyes and the red-gold hair that swept back from his clear forehead. To top it all off, when he wanted, he could turn on a look filled with the kind of promises you don’t repeat in public.

“Hello, Anatole.” I ordered myself not to melt with relief. Myself declared it would take the request under
advisement. “Anatole, this is Jacques Renault. Mr. Renault, this is…”

“Anatole Sevarin,” said Jacques. “
D’accord.
We’d heard you two were…connected.”

Anatole didn’t need to bother looking down his nose at anybody. He just leveled his gaze at you, and you could tell he already had a mental map of all your weak points. “I’m sorry, your name again?”

“Renault. Jacques Renault.”

“Oh yes, one of Henri’s children,” said Anatole. “I didn’t realize he let his boys hang about in alleyways. Unpleasant places, alleys.”

“And you never know who you’ll meet in the dark.” Jacques let a slow, cocky grin spread across his face. Half a heartbeat later, I was staring at empty space. Anatole swore and was gone just as fast, tearing down the alley after Jacques. I assumed. I couldn’t hear a damned thing except my own attempts to gulp down air and not scream.

I was still trying to get my fingers to loosen their death grip on the spray bottle when Anatole came strolling back up the alley, alone. He had that look a cat gets when it wants you to know it missed the mouse on purpose.

“That one is faster than he looks,” Anatole remarked. “Are you all right, Charlotte?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Anatole took my hand and gave me a small bow. He looked surprisingly good doing that, and I liked to watch him way, way more than was healthy for either of us. Anatole Sevarin said he was over eight hundred years old and that he had once worked for Ivan the Terrible. Shortly after I met him, we ended up saving each other’s lives—well, life in my case; earthly existence in his. Semantics aside, mutual rescues tend to give you warm feelings for someone. He also happened to be one of the handsomest men I’d ever seen, and as Manhattan is fashion-model central, there is locally an elevated standard of male beauty.

“Would you care to tell me what that was about?” He glanced down the alley.

“I’ve had a kind of complicated couple of days.”

“If you’re seeing yet another man…” The vast reservoir of amusement behind Anatole’s words was no help at all in this situation.

“That’s really not happening.”

“You cannot imagine how relieved I am. The thought of yet another rival for your affections…”

“You can stop this anytime, Anatole.”

“I can, but you blush so beautifully, I find it difficult to refrain from the temptation.”

“Now you’re really stretching things.” I finally remembered to take my hand back and stuffed it into my pants pocket.

“He mentioned the names ‘Alden,’ and ‘Renault,’” Anatole went on. “Have you become involved in a certain wedding of note?”

Of course he knew about that. Keeping up with the events of paranormal society was part of how Anatole earned his paycheck. The rise of haute noir cuisine and restaurants such as Nightlife had created a new job category—vampire dining critic. Anatole Sevarin was one of the first, and he was still one of the most widely read. This made him good for me to know, but kind of awkward to be dating.

Not that we were dating, not even on the sort-of-kind-of level I operated on with Brendan. There were a lot of reasons for this, starting with my warm and spinny-head feelings for that other man, and finishing with how it always looks fishy for a chef to date a critic.

“They’ve asked me to do the catering.”

Anatole raised one eyebrow minutely. “I had heard Oscar Simmons was catering. And isn’t the wedding only a week away?”

So there was
something
not on his radar. “Oscar Simmons is dead. I told you, things have gotten complicated.”

All the sardonic humor drained from Anatole’s expression, leaving behind…not a whole lot. “And you are further attempting to tell me with your eyes that you have no desire to be discussing this matter in this oh-so-fragrant alleyway.” He held out his arm as if he were channeling Mr. Darcy. “May I escort my lady to her conveyance?”

I kept my hands in my pockets. Reckless I might be, but not reckless enough to continue casual contact with Anatole. “You are never going to talk like a regular person, are you?”

“Please define ‘regular person.’ I fear my English is not up to the idiom.”

I had no snappy comeback to this one, so I just turned up Tenth and let Anatole fall into step beside me. A fresh breeze rolled down the street along with the late-night cruising taxis and rattling produce trucks. The cool air felt wonderful after the steam and scramble of the kitchen. I breathed deep and arched my shoulders, trying to work out the kinks. Unfortunately, memories of my “complicated” day knotted them right back up again.

“So,” I said, hoping in vain that I might sound almost casual, “do you know the Renaults?” I would work my way back to the recent threat when my brain stopped gibbering at the thought of it.

Anatole considered this for a lot longer than necessary. “Let us say I know of them.”

“Let us ask
what
you know of them.”

“I know Gabriel Renault is marrying Deanna Alden, which means he’s marrying into the Maddox clan.” Anatole’s grin had gone sharp enough to cut, and he wasn’t bothering to hide the fangs.

“Well, somebody’s enjoying this little development.”

“I am exceedingly pleased,” he admitted. “After all he has done to me and my kind, Lloyd Maddox will now have a nightblood in the family. He must be inches away from a
major coronary event.” Anatole’s voice held far more genuine relish than I was comfortable with on a dark street.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sympathize. When things exploded with Chet last year, Lloyd Maddox tried to use our problems to boost his antivampire cause with assorted legislatures, not to mention a few of the better-known radio talk show hosts. Grudge? Just a little for me, thanks.

“But you do know something about the Renaults?”

When Anatole’s caught off guard, there’s a moment when his face goes absolutely still and blank. It’s a little disturbing to realize how much effort he has to expend to maintain any expression at all.

“Ah!” Anatole sighed finally. “What have I done that my lady should want to spend our precious few moments together talking of other men?”

“You were the first one here, and I have questions that need answering.”

Remember that look I was telling you about? The one filled to the brim with very dangerous promises? Anatole turned it on me right then, and my reason started to melt like ice cream on an August sidewalk. “Charlotte, are you telling me I am first with you?”